If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it. The man who once swore he'd love me forever had betrayed me.

Just ten minutes ago, I saw my husband holding hands with another woman, waiting outside the obstetrics department.

The woman was smiling brightly, her hands constantly caressing her belly.

My husband gently held her hand, their faces glowing with anticipation, perhaps envisioning the life they'd have once the baby was born.

I hid in the corner, watching them lean on each other, their faces full of smiles, probably daydreaming about the arrival of their child.

I suddenly felt a bitter tightness in my stomach, nauseous and on the verge of vomiting.

I dialed Evan's number. "Honey, my stomach hurts. Could you come with me to the hospital?"

"Annie, I'm busy right now. Can you go a little later? Take some medicine first, and I'll come by when I'm done."

As he spoke to me on the phone, he lowered his head to kiss the woman beside him.

I clenched my fist. "Okay, will you be home for dinner tonight?"

"No, there's a company event tonight. You don't have to wait for me."

He must have forgotten—today was our fifth wedding anniversary.

It's our fifth anniversary, but he was with another woman in the maternity ward, waiting for her check-up. That woman looked about five months pregnant.

I ran away, tears streaming down my face.

He never used to lie. Every time he had a work trip, he'd let me know in advance.

He used to remember my cycle, my birthday, and never failed to remember our wedding anniversary.

Evan had always been so thoughtful. He'd take time off to be with me when I had cramps, cook porridge for me, and hold me until I fell asleep.

It turns out that Evan's kindness could extend to anyone. The way he cared for me, he could just as easily care for another woman.

The memories rushed through my mind like a movie reel. By the time I got home, it felt like my body had taken a devastating blow.

My stomach hurt even more, and I crouched down, clutching it, unable to stop the tears from falling.

"If only you had taken better care of yourself, you'd have had a child by now. You've been married five years and still can't have one. I told you to try IVF, but you insisted on dragging Evan into this ridiculous child-free lifestyle."

Evan's mom immediately scolded me upon seeing me. Just last week, she had come to pressure me into trying IVF. She'd been showing up almost every day, never repeating the same complaints.

As she kept nagging, my headache grew worse.

I cut her off coldly, "Mom, can you please give me some peace?"

"You don't even want to listen anymore, huh? Evan is our only son. Without children, our family line will end."

Is it my fault we can't have kids?

Mom, you're wrong.

It's your precious son who can't.

But I didn't spell it out. "We've already decided not to have children, Mom. Please drop it."

"What nonsense! Without children, who's going to take care of you when you're old? If you fall ill, no one will help you. It's as pathetic as can be. You young people are just too selfish."

"There are plenty of people who use IVF. If they can do it, why can't you?"

I pulled out my phone and sent Evan a message: "You need to call your mom and get her to leave."

Back then, Evan had bought a house in the same neighborhood as his parents, all in the name of filial piety. I'd gone along with it, never objecting.

Now, looking back, I realize it was a mistake. I worked myself to the bone every day, only to be tormented by people like her.

Evan's mom answered the call, her face lighting up with joy. I didn't know what Evan had said, but whatever it was, she seemed pleased.

Yet, before leaving, she couldn't resist one last jab.

"A woman who only knows how to work all day—what good is it to earn so much money?"

I snapped at her, "What, should I be like you and ask my husband for money every time I want to buy a dress?"

Evan called me after, apologizing and promising to come home as soon as he could.

I couldn't hold it in any longer—I hung up the phone and broke down in tears.